Sins of the Father
by Pudupudu
Summary: The enigmatic detective Sherlock Holmes may appear to be a brain without a heart but he hasn't always been this way. Dr Watson would do anything to help his friend but will he be able to defeat the demons from Holmes' past before they destroy his future?
1. Chapter 1

**21****st**** June 1863, Metlock Hall, Devonshire **

The small boy curled up in his brother's arms, his dangerously thin body testament to a lifetime of neglect and abuse. Bones protruded through bruised flesh, angry scars standing out sharply against the near translucent pallor of his skin. Mycroft traced the path of a scar down his back, sickening as he realised it had been caused by a horse whip, but even the pitiful spectacle of his brother's broken body could not prepare him for the pain he knew he would feel should he look into his eyes and see the state of his spirit. The revelation was one that he wished to put off for as long as possible and he resolutely continued to rock the child, tracing wounds as if to heal them.

"You left me" the boy broke the dreadful silence with words that stung like salt in a gaping wound. It wasn't what he said that broke his brother's heart, but the manner in which he had spoken. His statement had been a declaration of fact and had held no hint of malice, merely resignation. It had not taken the sharp-minded nine year old long to realise his lot and his philosophy was based on a lifetime of torturous experience: everyone he loved would leave him; that was his destiny in the world. He did not begrudge the Fates their sentence; after all, as his father reminded him on an almost daily basis, 'he deserved all he got'. No, he was not angry or upset with the young man who held him after so long apart; his words had been those of a scientist whose hypothesis had been proven, nothing more. He had become the impassive observer of his own destruction and he almost welcomed it.

Mycroft wiped his eyes fiercely and removed his school blazer, wrapping it around the slight frame in his embrace "you're coming with me." If the boy was surprised by the change in his circumstances, he didn't show it. His grey eyes remained cold, distant… sterile… and even as he lifted him into his arms Mycroft couldn't bear to look into them. For as long as he continued to look away he could remember his brother as the child he had been- happy, carefree, innocent- before he had left for school, before he had left him in the hands of fate and their father. If he looked into those icy depths now he knew he would drown in them, and there could be no salvation.


	2. Chapter 2

**From the diary of John H. Watson MD, 2****nd**** September 1884**

I don't know why I was so surprised to find that he had a brother. Certainly, he had been evasive about his past, but in truth his reticence on such matters had been no greater than my own. Still, I was shocked when Holmes had suddenly brought this hitherto unknown brother into the conversation. Perhaps my disbelief stemmed from an inability to see that the extraordinary man who was Sherlock Holmes possessed the mere humanity to allow him to have such a simple thing as a sibling; I fancy I would have felt less discomfited to learn that my friend had been hatched.

Now I sat in an opulent anti-room of the building housing possibly the queerest club in existence, the Diogenes, a club in which talking was forbidden: why, it was absurd! I could have pondered this peculiar setting for an age, and no doubt I would have if my current bemused and awed state would have allowed me to consider anything but the scene being played out by the brothers in front of me. Standing in the bay window the two men- as different in stance and stature as two brothers could possibly be- discussed the intricacies of the people below with all the enthusiasm of the ethnologist in a foreign land.

I was not quite immune to my friend's seeming omnipotence but I was at least used to it after the many times he had peered into the souls of the populace in my presence, however, to have _two _of them doing it… It was all I could do to keep my mouth from gaping open. I was reminded strangely of watching a game of lawn tennis as my head swerved left and right from brother to brother- _"a__n old soldier, I perceive"_ my friend made the first serve. _"And very recently discharged" _Mycroft met with a volley, and so it continued, until Sherlock parried _"…with a child." _The older Holmes' eyes lit up as he made his return _"children, my dear boy, children." _I winced on my companion's behalf: _advantage, Mycroft._

"Come" I said, dispelling the competitive tension from the room with a laugh, "this really is too much." Both heads turned to me and, although both brothers proceeded to spend several minutes highlighting my comparative ineptitude in the art of deduction, I felt relieved that the brothers' attention had at least been diverted away from each other. For all my lack of deductive prowess I was well aware of the strain in the relationship between these two great individuals. I might not have been able to tell that the stranger outside the window was a widowed army officer with two children but I could tell that my friend in this room was as taut as the E string on his violin. Mycroft had been incorrect with one observation; when he had stated that the greatest spot for the examination of mankind was from that window he was truly looking at things from the wrong side of the glass.

We were joined shortly after by Mr. Melas and _The Case of the Greek Interpreter _began, but that, dear reader, is for another tome entirely. While my friend and his brother examined and cross-examined both witness and evidence and I wrote notes with an outward display of diligence, I was inwardly using Holmes' own methods to gather data of an all together different nature. I noticed that at several points when Mycroft's intellect was excited he would reach out as though to touch his brother, but each time he did this, his rationality seemed to kick in and he occupied himself in another pursuit such as pouring or consuming another glass full of sherry. I also noticed the tension in every line of his brother's face every time Mycroft neared him and the relaxation that came when he moved away again. To a casual observer, such unrest would not have been observed- I daresay Mr. Melas did not notice a thing- but one cannot spend years in the company of a man and fail to sense his distress, even if that man is as skilled in the art of disguise as Sherlock Holmes.

Soon our interview came to an end and the Greek gentleman made his nervous way home. I finished my notes and stretched myself and Mycroft unconsciously reached into his pocket for a silver snuff box. As soon as he saw it, Sherlock's eyes snapped up and he looked to Mycroft with an expression even I couldn't place. "Father's case" he stated, his tone casual and giving nothing away but still Mycroft paled, shuffling the case back into its hiding place an expression which suddenly reminded me very much of his brother when I found him with his syringes and seven per cent solutions. But how could the expose of a fondness for snuff, which paled in comparison to some of Sherlock's vices, make the older Holmes so uncomfortable? My companion rose with some parting words on the subject of the case and made for the door and I too bade my goodbyes and followed him.

It was not until I stepped into the hall that I realised another part of this complex puzzle that had been niggling at me from the moment I had first seen the brothers together. Not once during the entire meeting had Mycroft Holmes looked his brother in the eye.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for all the reviews, both on here and Holmesslash.**

**Sanguinary Tears**** – I'm glad you liked it despite the sadness, I'm afraid it'll remain somewhat 'angsty' for a while but I'm a sucker for happy endings so we'll see what happens!****  
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**Mrs. Jean Valjean**** – I'm glad you like my story and hope you continue to do so- thanks for reviewing!**

**SylviaStout**** – I'm glad you like my Watson voice, I hope I manage to make him remain true to the character- let me know if you think I succeed in this!**

**Notyoustabby**** – Thank you for your candid review, constructive criticism is always good. I'm afraid this story is going to continue to contain more sharks than a Steven Spielberg movie; I hope you manage to come to more amiable terms with my friend Jaws but if not I am working on another 'safe water' fic which I hope you will approve of :-D  
**

**Callum**** – Here's some more for you, I'm glad you've enjoyed it thus far! There are a fair few chapters to come yet **

**Elena ****– Thanks for the review, I hope this lives up to your expectations for this topic- there's certainly a lot more angst to come!**

**And now, the story, review and I shall update again :-D…**

Holmes said little on the way home from the club and his silence remained absolute as we entered our rooms. I was of course accustomed to Holmes' long periods of introversion, having observed the man for many years, and I knew better than to disturb him when he was deep in thought. Thinking that Holmes would be likely to mull over our new case for quite some time, I picked up my book and began to read, leaving the world's foremost, and indeed only, 'consulting detective' to his meditations. It was not long, however, before I noticed that something was amiss.

Holmes is not by nature a languid individual, indeed, periods of inaction commonly led to fits of great distemper from this highly energetic and enigmatic man whose body and mind are in need of constant stimulation. I could not recall ever having seen my colleague and friend motionless; when on a case one could almost see the cogs of his mind whirl as he pondered, his elegant hands seemingly solving intricate puzzles of their own as they fiddled with his pipe or tapped a nameless tune. Even in the black moods that accompanied criminal inaction, listlessness was still always mingled with restlessness and commonly followed up by the use of chemical stimulants. Now, however, he sat perfectly still, staring sightlessly into the empty grate of the fireplace.

I put down my book, closing it with more force than necessary to try and provoke a reaction. He did not blink. Frowning, I stood and made my way nearer to his chair. Still, he did not move an inch. "Holmes?" I questioned softly, unable to keep the concern I felt from creeping into my tone. My frown deepened as he appeared not to hear me. I was now very seriously concerned about his wellbeing and, positioning myself directly in front of him I grasped his shoulders firmly; whatever reaction I might have expected, it was certainly not the one I was met with.

Holmes started violently when he felt my hands upon him and his eyes snapped away from the fireplace. I was very much alarmed by what I saw in those grey orbs- usually so calm and impassive they were now filled with a tumult of emotions one of which I recognised at once to be fear. "Holmes, it's me, it's Watson" I had realised with no little sense of panic that he was in need of this affirmation for in that instant he had not a clue who I was. Slowly the look of fear dissipated and his expression cleared "my dear fellow…" he addressed me in the queerest of tones, his voice weak. I removed my hands from his shoulders and he proceeded to visibly shake himself before springing to his feet and leaving the room. Without a backwards glance he closed his bedroom door behind him with a click of finality.


	4. Chapter 4

**VHunter07**** – I'm glad you liked my Watson voice, I do try to make what I write as true to canon as possible (other than the dates and general angst-swamped nature of the thing that is :-P ) I'm glad you like tragedy as there's a LOT more of that to come!**

**Igiveup**** – I don't know if this story is going to be slash yet; for the moments it's just friendship but I'll see how it progresses before putting up a warning. Thank you for the advice regarding the reviews- I'm new to this and hadn't realised that I had to enable anonymous reviews. I'm glad you liked the story and hope you continue to enjoy it!**

**Sanguinary Tears**** – thank you for reviewing again! Yes, poor Sherlock was quite discomfited by his meeting with his brother- hopefully good old Watson will be able to put him right in the end (even I don't know what's going to happen yet :-P )**

**Mona**** – thank you for the lovely review! I'm glad you enjoyed the story and considered it to be 'emotional' rather than 'melodramatic' as I feared it was. I do hope you maintain your good opinion of this story after reading the new chapter!**

**FormerCircusTeapot**** – I'm very pleased that you liked the Watson voice and the angst in this story- there's much more of that to come! I like writing and reading about character pasts, it makes the canon seem more three dimensional. Love your name by the way!**

**liederlady221B**** – I do hope that you continue to enjoy this story and don't consider it too melodramatic after this chapter. I love Holmes to bits but his demons are always lurking there in canon waiting to be brought to the surface by fanfiction writers :-P**

**And now, onto the story- WARNING: major shark attack! I do apologise to Doyle's tortured creations…**

**6****th**** January 1858, Metlock Hall, Devonshire**

Sherlock beamed as he saw his governess and started to clap his hands, bouncing up and down in childish delight "you made me a cake!" Matilda's eyes widened in surprise for a moment but she recovered well. "How did you know that?" she questioned kindly, bestowing an indulgent smile on her young charge. The perceptive toddler grinned toothily and knelt down to explain.

"Your cheeks are all red like you've been out in the sun but its snowy so you can't be warm from being outside. You've not been tending to the fire because if you had you'd be all sooty so you must have been leaning over the oven." The small boy sat back on his haunches and steepled his fingers as he always did when pondering, grey eyes lighting up as he formulated yet another deduction "you've also been wearing an apron. The ribbon's messed your hair up and the bottom of your dress is all crinkly from where it rode up when you pulled it off." He examined her again, sharp eyes taking in everything. "And your finger nails!" he exclaimed in delight "you have cake dough under your finger nails!"

Matilda beamed at him "nothing gets past you, does it?" The kindly woman opened her arms to the boy and he accepted her embrace at once. "Happy birthday Locky" she breathed into his un-breeched hair. Sherlock smiled and cuddled closer; he had always been an affectionate child and relished the moments when he was allowed to be; the moments when his father and his cane were absent. Placing him gently back on his feet, the nurse motioned towards a small pile of packages, the boy's entire countenance lit up "for me?" he queried in delight. She nodded her head.

The child rushed to his presents, just as any four year old boy would, but was stopped in his tracks as he heard hurried footsteps heading in the direction of the nursery. Listening carefully he determined the footfalls to belong to his brother Mycroft for they were too athletic for the maids, too short for the butler and too… well, they certainly didn't belong to his father, that was for sure. He was proven to have been correct a moment later when the dark haired head of his brother emerged from the other side of the door. Sherlock grinned at his brother but his expression turned solemn as he registered the older boy's fear.

Mycroft rushed to Matilda whose demeanour had at once become one of concern. "Whatever is the matter?" she questioned worriedly.

"He's here" Mycroft stated breathlessly "he has just returned, practically fell off his horse. He's been drinking again" the disgust in the eleven year old's voice was plain to hear. Sherlock overheard and let out a small whimper he could not restrain; as young as he was he could not fail to know the significance of his brother's words.

"Quickly" Matilda exclaimed as she took hold of Sherlock and made him more presentable, straightening his hair and collar. The boy was visibly trembling with fear as he went to stand next to his brother in regimental fashion; Mycroft squeezed his shoulder but dared do no more as the raucous noises emanating from the corridor indicated their father's immanent arrival. Matilda stood in front of the children she thought of as her own; her face betrayed none of the tumultuous emotions she too was feeling.

William Scott Holmes was a Lieutenant Colonel in the North Devonshire Regiment of Foot and he always wore his insignia with pride as he flayed his youngest child; this selfsame child would now cower in fear at the sight of the crown and pip if he had been allowed to do so. As it was, there was no escape for young Sherlock who presently stood in his nursery, trying desperately to stop his legs from shaking. The Holmes patriarch stood with uniformed legs astride, tapping his riding crop against the palm of his hand in a seemingly superfluous display of dominance given the fact his opponent barely stood past his knees.

Indeed, the officer was a fine specimen of an Englishman; standing at just over six foot, he was a great mass of muscle and sinew, dark hair shining and grey eyes gleaming with unmatched intelligence and cruelty. Those eyes found their twin pair in front of them and, glinting malevolently, they fed off the innocent fear they found there. The whip was smacked forcibly against the oaken floor, causing three innocent souls to jump in fear. "William, come" this brutish man was the only person to address the youngest Holmes by his forename and as such the boy loathed it. Shuddering with fear and as much disgust as one so young could muster, Sherlock took several brave steps forward.

Head slightly bowed to expose thick black locks and tender neck, the boy immediately regretted his decision not to meet his father's gaze. Of course, had grey eyes met grey the self made 'lord of the manor' would have been quick to chastise his child for impertinence, but this bowed posture was a sign of weakness and weakness would not be tolerated. Sherlock heard the blow before he felt it and fell to the floor with a small yelp as his knees gave way under the pressure of the whip. "Get up" the boy did as he was bid, trying to hide his tears but without success, the older Holmes saw the moisture and seized the opportunity to torment the much hated fruit of his loins.

"Why do you cry, boy?" his voice was barely more than a whisper, it need have been no more, the silence in the room was deathly.

"I d-don't know sir." Mycroft winced as his brother stammered and closed his eyes, not willing to see what was to happen yet not able to stop it.

"You don't know?" the army man's low voice held a hint of triumph which he soon acted upon, sending the boy once more to the ground. "Well, child, I shall tell you why you cry. You cry because you are a pitiful and weak child and, as such, are no son of mine. Weakness is a sin. Sins must be punished."

For all of his many failings and vices, no one could accuse William Scott Holmes of not being a man of his word. He had promised the boy punishment and so he delivered it, burning the small pile of packages before his helpless sight; the shadows of the growing flames danced across the harsh angles of the man's face, the reflections in his eyes providing the only suggestion of warmth that would ever be seen there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sanguinary Tears**** – sorry for making you cry with that chapter! I'm glad you're getting used to the angst though as there's plenty more to come :-P**

**Dark-Yukari**** – this part isn't as angsty as the last (although there's still plenty in there!) Hope you like it!**

**VHunter07**** – glad you're enjoying this. I think I shall be abiding by your wish not to include slash in this story as I honestly don't think it would work here; there might be a bit of 'manly hugging' later but they'll probably end up just shaking hands or something…**

**Igiveup**** – Watson is certainly going to try his hardest to help our dear Holmes but it's going to be a long process! Glad you liked my little Locky**

**From the diary of John H. Watson MD, 3****rd**** September 1884**

Four o'clock in the morning saw me at my dear friend's bedside as he physically and audibly fought off whatever mental demons were assailing him. "Holmes! Holmes, for God's sake man, wake up!" I gripped him by the shoulders and tried to make him hear me. My attempts to free him from his nightmare had thus far proved futile as well as rather painful for me as his flailing limbs struck several blows to my person. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat and he shivered feverishly even as he fought with surprising strength.

His terrible cries must have woken our dear landlady as well for I soon sensed her concerned presence behind me. "Could you fetch me some brandy please, Mrs Hudson?" I asked to give her something to occupy her worried mind. To my great relief, Holmes appeared to be stirring but I did not release him from my grip; "easy now" I softened my voice as his eyelids flickered. In the dim light of the oil lamp I recognised the look of frightened confusion on my colleague's face because it was the same one that he had worn in our sitting room earlier that day but I was no less shocked by it now than I had been before.

Soon, and to my great relief, Holmes began to return to himself. I offered him a glass of brandy wordlessly and he took it in a shaking hand, a slight flush gracing his otherwise ashen complexion. I looked away, knowing that my proud friend would want some time to compose himself. "Get out" I turned in surprise towards the trembling source of the remarkably collected whisper; the voice rose an octave as the words were forced once more from a stricken throat "get out!" With a sad sigh I inclined my head and did as I was bid.

Although I was stung by his words it was not because I considered him callous- quite the contrary, I had long ago ceased to regard the illustrious detective as a being nothing but an unfeeling rationalist. The vehemence with which he wanted me not to see him in this weakened state betrayed a very great and anguished heart; a heart that feared it would be broken. What hurt was that he did not trust me to see him in this state and still remain the loyal friend and companion that I always had- nay, always would- be. If only I could make him see, I mused as I sank morosely into my chair and watched the sun stain the sky in a faded boutique of magenta and yellow which fought for supremacy against a watery blue.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I failed to register Holmes' presence in the room until he spoke, his haunting tone sending shivers down my spine. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." I took a deep breath, needing to compose myself before looking up.

Holmes stared straight ahead as if his impromptu bought of Romanticism had been directed at the sunrise; he was seemingly oblivious to the effect this words had had on me or even to the fact that I had heard them at all. It was not just that this at times almost oppressively scientific man had suddenly started reciting Shakespeare- although this, in itself, was shocking enough- but I knew all too well what this particular Macbeth speech implied and the implication chilled me to the bone. I knew my friend's black moods well and had learned to cope with these bleak psychological periods but never before had I seen him so… so _desolate_ and what was worse, I could not for the life of me fathom the cause; we had a case, after all, so why the melancholy?

"My dear Holmes…" I started to rise from my chair, unsure of what to say but knowing that I had to do something to bridge the awful and incomprehensible chasm that seemed to have formed between us that day. He held up a hand and the light from the window fell across his face, illuminating a brief smile which might have been a grimace. "Don't…" he paused, "don't concern yourself about me, my dear fellow." I sighed inwardly and shook my head, despairing at the unfathomable nature of the man I had come to revere above all others.

Yet as I sat in my chair and he in his it was as if nothing untoward had happened between us; the silence now was comfortable, not stifling as it had been, and when it was broken it was by Holmes' ponderings on the case, not on mortality. Indeed, I now begin to suspect that the aforesaid events were just figments of a tired and strained imagination for nothing has seemed awry since the morn. The rest of our day has, as a point of fact, been a productive one, the results of which I have noted up for publication as yet another example of the many skills of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**VHunter07****- thank you once again for reviewing. I'm glad you liked Watson's devotion to Holmes; I always find their relationship in canon to be exceedingly touching and one of the purest examples of platonic and unconditional love I know of- I hope I manage to capture some of that spirit. As for the imagery, again I'm pleased you liked it; I've become somewhat obsessed with pathetic fallacy of late and put it in wherever I can :-P**

**Dark-Yukari****- aww, yes, Holmes needs hugs! Manly hugging will need to come into this somewhere :-D **

**Igiveup****- indeed, poor Holmes and Watson, I do torture them terribly. Yes, I fear HMS Angsty Story is heading in a Mary-ward direction and where it stops, I'm not quite sure (maybe at the bottom of a water fall but we'll see)**

**Susicar****- I'm glad you like my story and thanks for your compliments regarding my talents as an author, although I think you overrate me- I just like to mess with the minds of my heroes, making me more a sadist than a talented writer :-P**

**FormerCircusTeapot****- here's some more for you passes over gruel and then replaces with story **

**bakerstreetirregular****- no, William Scott Holmes isn't the nicest man in the world, is he? I'm glad you liked my story, especially the angst as there's more to come**

**I'm very sorry but this is an extremely short post. I'm afraid I've not been well gets violin out but I will have a longer chapter for you when I am able, promise.**

**12****th**** March 1860, Metlock Hall, Devonshire **

Sherlock sat by the bed, his head bowed. He couldn't bring himself to look up at the body of the only mother he had ever known; to see the only light in his dark existence snuffed out would have caused pain too great for one so young to stand. He had, however, been forced to see her as his father brought him in, demanding that he pay his last respects; now he had been left him alone in that terrible room and he could not bear to glimpse death again, even though the presence of it hung in the very air, cloying, suffocating, inescapable.

She had looked so peaceful, the boy had noted in the brief time his horrified eyes had wandered over the immobile shell of his one time protector. He found himself feeling an inexplicable pang of envy that her suffering was over while he was still here in the power of his father; such jealousy tainted his sadness at her loss- after all, how could he feel sad for someone who had gone to heaven? He wondered vaguely if Matilda was up there now, his brow creased into a frown of concentration as he wondered whether she had met his mother.

The six year old's imagination created vivid images of them floating together on a sea of golden tranquillity with angels singing in heart-felt chorus. Young Sherlock's own heart ached with a longing to be with them, to be enfolded in the soft embrace of his nurse and companion and to inhale the scent he knew inexplicably to be his mother's. His breath caught mournfully and his eyes misted over as he realised that his dream could never come true; as his father had told him again and again, bad boys don't go to heaven.

With eyes so clouded over with tears that he could not have seen the body even if he had wanted to, he clambered onto the bed, curling up in a woeful ball against the dead embers of his innocent and carefree childhood. She was cold but even as he shivered he did not care, the depth of his sorrow had rendered him insensible. Yet as the child sobbed bitterly birds outside the drawn curtains continued to whistle their joyful melodies, oblivious to the heart rending laments of the blameless boy inside; their jubilant calls masked the sounds of a heart breaking.

**AN**** having previewed this chapter my dear friend Michelle asked me where baby Watson is when baby Sherlock is in his hour of need… well, at present I can only presume that the 8 year old Watson is playing with toy soldiers and treating worms with colds but that, dear reader, is quite another story**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you all for the reviews- please keep them coming, they're much appreciated. Sorry I'm not responding to them each in turn as I usually do but I'm still not feeling too brilliant- sob, sob- but here's another part for you all**

**From the diary of John H. Watson MD, ****14th****December**** 1884**

_"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?" _

_"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it._

_(The Sign of Four)_

Sitting here in my room as I am now, I am able for the first time to contemplate fully the events of the last few months. My good friend Holmes has recently put an end to a most interesting affair which I shall forthwith document under the title 'The Sign of Four' but for me there are to be more lasting consequences of our work for Miss Morstan- she and I are soon to be wed. Here in my private journal I can be permitted a romantic turn of phrase which dear Holmes would surely scoff at: my heart is fit to burst with joy now that I have Mary in my life.

She is a picture of feminine beauty with the brightest eyes and warmest heart of any lady I have ever met. She is beyond doubt the finest woman in my acquaintance with an intellect and wit that even my cynical Holmes cannot fail to appreciate. I am rapt with anticipation for the day when we will pledge ourselves to each other and would surely have been wandering around London wearing an inane grin since the moment she agreed to become my wife, had it not been for the irrational feelings guilt which plague me.

I know the cause, of course, I know him very well. Short of his initial remark that he could not congratulate me, Holmes has said little of my impending matrimony; his morose expressions, however, reveal the magnitude of his contempt for my decision. He feels that I am betraying him and I suppose that I am; marriage is against every one of his well weathered principles. Although he will never admit to it, I fear I am hurting him very greatly by changing the dynamic of our relationship; although I will continue to work with him on cases, we both know that there are some things that will have to change.

I feel I'm abandoning him too, leaving him alone with Mrs Hudson and his brooding thoughts in Baker Street. I like to pretend to myself that he'll find another roommate but I know he will not; it's not boastful pride that makes me say that there is no other he will open up to as he has me. The thought of leaving him fills me with cold dread as I know all too well how he will spend the lonely hours, bored and dispirited with only the deceptive comfort of his drugs and the cold embrace of his tourniquet while I'm enfolded in the love of my marital bed with my beloved Mary.

I wish he could be happy for me but I know he cannot; his hatred of women is too deep to allow him to feel joy as I am bound to one. It's not just hatred either, there's something else I can sense. The other day I caught sight of Holmes' expression over Mary's shoulder as we embraced and was shocked to see a countenance I had only regarded once, when we were awaiting a visit from a poisonous snake- he was afraid for me. To him, Mary is a viper ready to strike at me when my back is turned. While I am touched by his concern, I cannot help but be stung on Mary's behalf, she is too dear a creature to be so defamed.

I need to get to the bottom of this, for Holmes' peace of mind as well as my own; the strain of this is beginning to show both of our nerves. He has been more pallid and drawn than usual of late and, although he would never mean to hurt me, having a rift between the two people who mean the most to me in the world is tearing me in two. I must dress now and meet with the only man who can help to solve the mysteries of my friend: Mycroft Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks for all of the reviews, I'm sorry for the delay, I've been a bit busy. This bit's a tad odd so I hope you'll forgive me :-P**

**16th March 1860, St. Giles Church****, Devonshire **

The spring sun was weak, the sky sickly and pale. Sheltered by the grey stone facade of the medieval church not even the breeze could filter through to the service and the stillness was as oppressive as the expressions on the faces of the leaden saints in the stained-glass panes. Inside the church stone reliefs and grotesques outnumbered the sole mourner at a ratio of exactly one hundred to one, and each of the multitudinous eerie carvings and paintings seemed to take on the sanguine appearance of a man made conspicuous by his absence.

At the front of the church lay a simple coffin, its limited length a poignant reminder of potential left forever unfulfilled. The dark crimson interior of the casket provided an austere contrast with the bloodless form within. A soulless corpse lay prone and pale, peaceful features creating an appearance of restfulness; to look upon that angelic face, unlined by pain one would have thought that the spirit had passed on under the power of a final sleep. The illusion was maintained by clothes that concealed so many truths; a form with a nightmare existence would forever more hold the countenance of a dream.

The service was mercifully short; what could the priest have said for the benefit of one about a life too short and a death too unjustified? As ashes met ashes and dust met dust, a single tear rolled down as single cheek and a single rose was offered into the earth before Mycroft Holmes straightened his shoulders and made his way home to the man who had murdered his only brother.

---------------------------------

The night time visions of the previous night remained fixed in Sherlock Holmes' mind as he watched the proceedings of his protector's funeral. His emotions were so confused that he could not have cried even if his father would have been permitted tears. Upset about the loss of one he had loved so dearly, frightened of what the future held for him, angry... oh yes, angry. Angry at his father, angry at the world, angry and Matilda... She had left him, just as his mother had left him. She had abandoned him to his father and now, in the absence of her educational coaching, even his brother would be forced to leave him and go to a school far away.

These maternal figures... these women... these _fiends_ had contributed to so much pain in his existence. He could not remember his mother but he had heard whispers of a time before her death, a time when his father had not been the monster he now was; her death, it seemed, like the opening of Pandora's Box, had unleashed all the terrors of the earth upon her child. Matilda too had become a demon in the boy's eyes... an Eve... responsible for his fall into his father's hand. Alone, unguarded.

Who knew now when his nightmare of an un-repented and painful passing would become a reality... surely it would be soon, and he knew who would be to blame. Women.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you for your reviews and your patience!**

**Igiveup: Thank you for your review, sorry I took so long to post updates! I agree that Holmes' thinking about women is irrational, whether in his childish or adult manifestations :-P**

**VHunter07: Glad I could make you a happy fanfic reader ****In answer to your question, yes I do write poetry and had a poem published a LONG time ago (though I have to say that my confidence in my poetic ability is hardly sky-high, as much as I like to paint pictures with words)**

**Chewing Gum: I hope that quantity of posts makes up for length! The last chapter was confusing to write, let alone to read. The first section is ambiguous- the person in the coffin is both Sherlock in his own nightmare and Sherlock in a symbolic sense (for the symbolism, see Bakerstreetirregular's revue- it's explained there better than I could **

**Moonlitpuddle: Sorry about the length! Hope you enjoy this part**

**Bakerstreetirregular: Oh yes, I love playing with Sherlock's mind cackles. Glad you like my jigsaw-like slotting- I don't like gaps although I'm sure they will appear! Ooo, what would you like to teach at Oxford? Good luck with that! Hope you enjoy this chapter**

**From the diary of John H. Watson MD, ****15th****December**** 1884**

It is with drooping lids and a heavy heart that I come to recount the tale of the past four and twenty hours. If I had known yesterday what I know now, would things have been different? Could I have stopped Holmes- my dear, dear Holmes- from... But wait, I am too hasty and am once again committing the literary sin for which my friend has so often berated me: starting a story from the tail end. I must, therefore, revoke the previous paragraph and start from whence I last left off.

After having set down my pen yesterday morning, I donned my clothes and winter coat and left 221b Baker Street. Holmes was nowhere to be found but this was by no means an unusual occurrence. Rather than worried about his absence, I was relieved that I did not have to explain the reasons for my own; his presence would have doubtless impeded my progress to the Diogenes club and I fully intended on keeping to my earlier vow. I had to meet with Mycroft- for my own peace of mind, if nothing else.

I was shown through the familiar halls to the hitherto vacant Strangers' Room and left alone while Mycroft was summoned by the porter. I was nervous, justifiably so perhaps, given the nature of the information I intended to extract from the brother of one I esteemed so greatly. Needing something to do with my hands, I picked up the morning paper. I wasn't really reading it but my mind registered the headline vaguely; the previous evening a catastrophe had been narrowly averted as some brave- or suicidal, as I thought to myself- gentleman had placed himself between a frantic carriage pair and a busy street of pedestrians.

I was prevented from finding out how the beleaguered hero had fared by the entrance of the man I knew to be my companion's brother. If I had not known this to be the case, I would not have believed it. Mycroft Holmes is as portly as my colleague is sinewy, as languid as he is restive, even his eyes are a different colour- watery blue in opposition to sharp grey. In terms of intelligence, however, the familiar relationship was clear to see; both men radiated intellectual power. Mycroft's countenance, I noticed with a frown of consternation, was also reflecting something altogether more unsettling although I could not for the life of me figure out what emotions had caused such a visage.

I was drawn from my analysis but the sound of chair legs scraping against wood. Looking up I met with the cool, amused gaze of one who had clearly read my thoughts "my eyes are my mother's, Sherlock's are his father's". I knew better than to ask how he had known what I was thinking; long experience of one Holmes had given at least some insight into the workings of the other. Even so, I felt disconcerted and even more so when I realised that I was not the only one. While I knew Mycroft to be fond of a tipple, I never expected to see him gulping back undiluted whiskey as if it was water.

He knew what I was here for before I had had the opportunity to utter a word. "I wondered when you would call", he stated, his educated burr soft. Raising a hand to halt whatever I had been about to say, he spoke again. "I have seen your interactions with my brother and I feel that I can trust your discretion on the delicate matters about which you are here to converse." He put a halt to my pleas that he had my word by raising a hand once more, "I am not often wrong about a person, don't let this be one of those rarest of occasions". With his point made clear he settled himself back in his chair and I waited nervously, filled with no small amount of trepidation about what was to come.


	10. Chapter 10

**I apologise for the LONG delay. I'm over-worked and under the ground (six feet under, in fact). This is a bit of a rushed part so excuse me for the poor grammar and / or content. Thank you all for reviewing and being patient :-)**

**Continuation of**** the diary of John H. Watson MD, 15th December 1884 **

"My father", Mycroft began, "had the strongest sense of duty of any man I have ever encountered." He paused for a moment, reaching for his snuff box and weighing it up in his hands without taking a pinch. "This, in retrospect, is probably why I have shirked all positions of obligation that have passed my way while my brother has embraced so many."

"There was his duty to the army, to his tenants, to his sons," he looked down once again at the trinket in his hands as if it held answers to all of the mysteries in the universe. He raised his eyes, looking, unseeing, at a spot just beside my head, remembering, "but the one he felt most keenly of all, the one duty he took with him to his grave, was the one to the only woman he ever allowed himself to love."

**6th January 1854, Metlock Hall, Devonshire**

"William, do stop fussing" she reprimanded but with a smile in her voice. The tall man flashed her a brief smile of acknowledgment before promptly ignoring her demands and leading his heavily pregnant wife to her chair. Elizabeth's eyes were soft as she gazed into her husband's; cupping his cheek, she ran a thumb down its angular surface. "I'll be fine," taking his other hand in hers, she placed it on her swollen stomach, "we both will." 

When the baby made its presence known with a resonant kick, young Mycroft Holmes, observing from his window seat, perceived a glistening in his father's eyes which, in those of other men, would have implicated tears, but not in this case. In this particular case the glimmer was put down to a trick of the light. Mycroft's father never cried.

"I'll send down for some warm milk and honey" the Holmes patriarch spoke in a soft voice that was almost not his own. Elizabeth smiled her ready smile once more: "thank you". William left reluctantly, his son maintaining his silent vigil in the corner of the room.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Mycroft remained silent for several seconds following his recollection. When he did proceed, it was in a tone I had never heard from him before. "This was" he said "the last time I ever saw my father." His voice seemed strained, like butter spread over too much bread, and he sounded, for the first time in our acquaintance, almost exactly like his younger sibling... like his younger sibling after a nightmare. 

For his part, Mycroft looked to be as perplexed by the words and sounds coming from his mouth as I was. He visibly gathered his wits about him before continuing his narrative with an action rather than words. I took the silver box he proffered gingerly, since my hands were somewhat unsteady, and opened it.

Inside it was a picture of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Ebony hair framed the most exquisite of faces; long eyelashes flowed down onto elegantly defined cheekbones which framed a regally aquiline nose, which would have looked unseemly in a lesser setting, but here the effect was startling. My eyes sought the full lips of the woman before me and I forced myself to swallow as I imagined them to be full of life and colour.

She could have been a statue, a most divine statue, but a statue none-the-less, were it not for the eyes. Even in this faded sepia one could tell that these soulful eyes were the brightest of blues, shining with gentle mirth. These eyes were her dynasty to Mycroft while the rest of her features... my breath hitched. The rest of the features that I considered so angelically sublime had all been passed on to her youngest son, my very own Sherlock Holmes.

"Even as a young boy, he looked so much like her." I had grown somewhat accustomed by this time to the Holmes' uncanny ability to anticipate my thoughts but still my eyes snapped up to meet those of Mycroft. "He couldn't bear to look at him, not after..." Mycroft sighed and shifted his corpulent body into an upright position. When he next spoke, he was gazing out of the window, the exact same position I had espied him in when I first witnessed his deductive prowess.

"My mother took her own life, doctor, not long after Sherlock was born." My mouth dropped open a notch but I closed it abruptly as Mycroft turned. "He blamed himself, of course. He had failed in his duty. And then there was Sherlock; the vision of his mother, with the same sweet temper... fragile... but with _his _eyes; a reminder of his wife and a reminder of his failure." Blue eyes met mine "_my _father was a good man, Doctor. But he died alongside our mother."


	11. Chapter 11

**This next chapter is set two days before Watson's last diary entry. I would advise readers to read chapters 7-10 again before reading this if you have forgotten what has been happening- this will make the placement of the events in this chapter easier for you to picture (I hope). This follows Holmes's thoughts and actions on the 13****th**** and 14****th**** of December 1884. In regard to Holmes's mother in the previous chapter, we can assume that she killed herself as a result of post-natal depression.**

**The poem I have used in this chapter is a sonnet by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a deeply fascinating gentleman. In brief, Hopkins was a Jesuit priest, a poet and a deeply troubled homosexual. Hopkins's father hated homosexuality with a passion and, as I'm sure you're aware, Victorian society was not exactly approving of it. Unsurprisingly, Hopkins fell into a deep depression, the strain of which led to his untimely death. This poem was written when he was in one of these dark states of being and its convoluted and complex style is indicative of his torment when writing it. **

**This story, as promised, is ****NOT slash**** (although if you wish to read slash into it, go ahead). This may make my choice of poem seem a bit odd- it is, after all, about Hopkins's feelings of love towards a man with whom he cannot be and how accursed he feels because he cannot prevent them. However, I thought that it would fit in nicely here because , with Holmes's past experiences of love and loss, ANY feelings of love for another being, no matter how innocent, would make him feel dreadful as all the people he has loved in the past have hurt him terribly. If you want to flame someone for having Sherlock Holmes feel love for John Watson then I suggest you flame Conan Doyle 'cos he started it.**

_**I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.**_

Sherlock Holmes was not a man unused to melancholy and yet of late... Of late there was something additional, something that even the great Sherlock Holmes could not define clearly. This inability to articulate his exact humour was almost more painful to him than the feelings themselves. It was as though his mind were dissolving into a tempestuous gyre from which there could be no escape... and what then? If the 'mind without a heart' lost its mind... what then?

Except he did have a heart; a heart hardened by time and cruel experience but a heart nonetheless. As he sat there on the cold bench, with the sun rising in sickly shades behind clouds of ominous grey, a shiver ran through him that had little to do with the temperature although it was bitterly cold. There was a strong gust of wind and the clouds moved on their menacing way; the patch of tremulous light kindled for a moment in defiance before surrendering completely to their gloomy majesty.

_**What hours, O what black hours we have spent**_

_**This night! What sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!**_

Such pathetic fallacy only served to darken Holmes's mood further. He had much to brood over and he did so, painfully, even as his limbs grew numb from cold. The previous evening sprung to his mind vividly. Watson had entered their living room after his surgery to find him curled up in his chair gazing morosely into the dying embers of the fire, a threadbare blanket thrown haphazardly about his shoulders. He knew that he must have looked a sight; he had slept little in the past weeks, tormented as he was by nightmares, and he had eaten less, still, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Watson said nothing at first, merely placed his medical bag down before stoking the fire and tucking the blanket more securely around the thin shoulders of the man in front of him. "This cannot go on, Holmes." Holmes attempted a glare but it was half hearted at best "let it go, Watson"; what was worse was that he knew his companion was right. The doctor threw his hands up in exhausted exasperation. Holmes noticed that his eyes were red from lack of sleep and yet he never complained, always reassuring after one of those terrible dreams, always by his side.

He felt a stab of guilt and must have winced visibly for within moments Watson was crouching in front of him, worry etched in lines across his expressive face. When he spoke his voice was sad and soft. his hands had somehow found their ways to Holmes knees, exerting pressure unconsciously as his whole being begged his friend's compliance. "My dear fellow, you know I cannot leave you to run yourself ragged without comment. As your doctor my professional conscience will not allow it and as your friend... I care about you Holmes."

Holmes fancied that he had seen an unnatural glistening in Watson's eyes just as his own vision had blurred but both men blinked and it was gone; the emotions, however, were harder to shake off. "I..." Holmes began, his voice strained with feeling and underuse. He trailed off, uncertain of how to continue: to return the statement would surely be too trite, over-sentimental and above all, obvious. _Of course _he cared about Watson; he was his colleague, his faithful Boswell. And yet he must say something... "I think someone is at the door."

Watson looked taken aback for a moment but managed to compose himself in time for Holmes's assertion to be proven correct. Mrs Hudson bustled in with a concerned frown fro Holmes and a message for Watson: "Miss Morstan is here for you, Doctor." As Holmes watched Watson's shoulders seemed to slump but he soon convinced himself that he had been imagining it as a second later Watson was as sturdy and upright as usual, assuring their landlady that he would be down presently.

Picking up his still-warm hat and coat, the doctor turned to the detective. "I shall be home as soon as the ballet has finished." He opened the door but hesitated on the threshold. There was clearly much he wished to say but he settled on what he considered the safest passage and implored "do try to get some rest." Grey eyes met blue and both men gave small, wry smiles, each knowing the task to be nigh on impossible "goodnight Holmes." With that, he left. The fire cracked and spat and something inside Holmes burned along with it. Something directed towards Mary Morstan. Something that made his skin crawl.__

_**And more must, in yet longer light's delay.**_

Left alone with his thoughts once more, Holmes began to analyse his feelings for Watson's female companion and ponder what they meant. He was reluctant to consider the fact he might be jealous, although all evidence pointed in that direction; jealousy brought with it too many implications that he would rather not face. He was merely concerned that his friend had been overly hasty in forming his attachment to his former client. Yes, that's what it was, simple concern for a fellow man. Nothing more than that.

And yet the feeling of emptiness that had settled in his stomach when Watson had closed the door would overhaul any opinion that the emotions Holmes felt in connection with his friend were 'simple'. His hands clenched into fists as he attempted to rid his mind of thoughts of life without Watson; such things were too painful to contemplate and here was this... this _woman_... driving Watson away from him. Making him take her to the _ballet_, of all things.

Holmes froze. "Oh God..." he rasped to the flames. He, Sherlock Holmes, the man who had spent so many years trying to make himself impervious to the affections of another, the man who had built up barriers of steel to prevent anyone from hurting him again, had allowed himself to love. And now it was happening again, as it always did. Watson was leaving him just as his mother had, just as Matilda had, just as Mycroft had and he would be alone. Again.

Except that Watson wasn't leaving him. He would be moving out, true, but his sense of loyalty... of _duty_... was too strong to abandon Holmes completely. No, he would continue in his duties as colleague and biographer, even as Holmes's moods became unbearable, even when all he wanted to do was to leave Baker Street far behind, start a family and continue the practice of the medicinal art he loved. Watson would never leave Holmes, just as William Holmes would never leave his son; they were duty bound together.

Holmes let out a strangled cry. There was nothing else for it. He had to sever the bond before it was too late. For both of them.

_**With witness I speak this. But where I say**_

_**Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament**_

_**Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent**_

_**To dearest him that lives alas! away**_

At once the great and tortured mind began to formulate a plan. He could not remain in Baker Street, nor could Watson know of his destination, the temptation to find him would be too strong. For that same reason there was no way that he could simply disappear and not expect Watson to attempt to track him down. No, he must go somewhere where even dear Watson could not follow.

Moriarty was getting anxious, Holmes knew this. He knew that it wouldn't be long before an attempt against his person was made, perhaps by Moriarty himself. If he defeated the professor, he would stage his own death. As painful as it would be to deceive Watson it was better than the pain he would incur if... well, Holmes would see to it that it never reached that stage.

And if Moriarty won... Well, that was no great loss, to Holmes at least. Of course he would try to bring Moriarty down with him but he did not fear death. In many ways he welcomed it. An hour without Watson by his side was excruciating, let alone a lifetime. Unable to sleep yet unable to face Watson, he made his way to Hyde Park. And it was here, many hours later, that he now sat. The heavens opened and raindrops ran down his cheeks like tears. Or perhaps they were tears. He could not tell.

_**I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree**_

_**Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;**_

_**Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.**_

_**Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours.**_

Losing track of time to thoughts of impending loss and ever-present self-loathing, Holmes did not notice that the streets of the city around him had begun to fill up. What he did notice, however, was a loud clattering of hooves accompanied by terrified screams. He jumped the fence, his body moving without him, until suddenly he was in the path of danger. There was a gasp, a crash and a cry of pain from a voice strangely familiar yet somehow far away.

It was many moments before Holmes's consciousness returned to him and he winced as his eyes fluttered open to behold a sea of blurry onlookers. "Try to stay still" someone said, their voice sounding like it was travelling through treacle. He couldn't have disobeyed, even if he had wanted to. Beads of rain and sweat fell from his tilted chin, forming a rosary on the exposed flesh below and, for the first time in many weeks, Sherlock Holmes gave a joyful, honest smile.

As his eyes drifted shut his last thought was that now, finally, he was free.

_**I see**_

_**The lost are like this, and their scourge to be**_

_**As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.**_

**(Gerard Manley Hopkins)**


End file.
